History that begins with Confession

A timely and insightful argument from Matt Anderson on the relationship between evangelical and LGBT communities:

As an evangelical Christian, taking history seriously means beginning with something like confession. If the LGBT community is in fact motivated to constrain religious expression out of vindictiveness, the question naturally arises whether we Christians deserve it. Any sober answer can only acknowledge the misuses and abuses of power and politics by conservative Christians in their defense of traditional marriage. As legitimate as concerns about the importance of marriage to the common good are, the argument was sometimes pursued by activists and ordinary citizens (even if not by lawyers or other leaders) in ways that undermined our credibility with those we were ostensibly seeking to persuade. At the same time, our failures to uphold appropriate sexual norms within our own communities—such as the Catholic sex scandal, or rampant divorce within evangelicalism—made us too easily susceptible to charges of hypocrisy. Moreover, we required instant transformation of gay and lesbian individuals within our own communities, burdening them with wildly unrealistic expectations and subsequently exhausting them.

Read the whole thing and subscribe to his newsletter.

Friendship and Society

From Micah Mattix’s recent Prufrock newletter:

I’ve finished the final lectures on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. The final two treat friendship and action. Friendship according to Aristotle is the “most necessary” virtue. I won’t go into Aristotle’s types of friendship (those founded on utility, pleasure, and virtue), but I appreciated his view that friendship is one of the foundations of civilization. It is what binds a city together. We see this idea in classical and modern literature, too. Friendship and hospitality (which is welcoming a stranger as a friend) are quintessentially human attributes in The Odyssey, for example, which are not shared by the gods or the sub-human cyclops. These two ideas—that friendship is the basis of civilization and a touchstone of humanity—are also found in Francis Bacon’s short essay “Of Friendship,” which is obviously drawn from classical sources. Whatever “delights in solitude,” Bacon writes, “is either a wild beast or a god. For it is most true, that a natural and secret hatred, and aversation towards society, in any man, hath somewhat of the savage beast.” It’s not that solitude is bad or unnecessary. It is that to live only in solitude is to live a sub-human life. Without friends, Bacon continues, the “world is but a wilderness.”

It seems to me that we’ve lost this high view of friendship as an aspect of human identity, which we now regularly confuse with personality or view as a discrete construction of the autonomous will rather than as something that is composed of universal attributes. So, it is no surprise that our lives increasingly look like those of the cyclops. We live in caves, in fenced-in back yards, and “consume” each other—on television, in movies, on Facebook and Twitter. And because our lives (I’m speaking generally here about American culture) are ordered around maximizing physical pleasure, not virtue, they must end in suicide when the body’s capacity for physical pleasure wanes. The opioid crisis starts with this low view of human nature and won’t end until a grander view is recaptured, which I don’t see happening any time soon.

The themes of friendship and hospitality have been coming through loud and clear as I’ve been rereading the Odyssey this summer. I’m teaching The Odyssey and Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics next year to a group of high school freshman. Discussing the idea of “friendship” seems like a great place to start analyzing and understanding both works…not to mention the myriad of other connections to the other books we’ll read as well (e.g., The Iliad, The Aeneid, The Metamorphoses, etc.). It’s going to be a great year!

THS: BenOp before BenOp

Continuing my observations after reading C. S. Lewis’s That Hideous Strength

Observation #2: St. Anne’s is the BenOp prior to all the hubbub about BenOp
I was struck by how St. Anne’s on the Hill more-or-less prefigures the recent discussions and debates surrounding Rod Dreher’s book The Benedict Option. Tour the Hobbiton Movie Set in Matamata, New Zealand | HGTV

St. Anne’s is a quasi-agrarian household–complete with a garden and (from Jane’s perspective) a backward social structure based on conservative/traditional values regarding gender, religion, etc. St. Anne’s is the primary resistance to the growing threat of the National Institute of Coordinated Experiments (NICE).

The NICE, in contrast, is a bureaucracy: it abstracts humanity into numbers and then attempts to harness the evolutionary process through technology. It is, more importantly, progressive. It wants to better humanity by discarding tradition and marching towards an ever purer form of human existence–one that is free from the messiness and limitations of biology.

One of the recurring debates at St. Anne’s is the usefulness of their resistance. MacPhee, the hyper-rational logician and skeptic, frequently raises the complaint that while the NICE continues to grow and gain power, the small group of insurgents at St. Anne’s continue to do nothing. They garden, cook meals, argue with one another, corral Mr. Bultitude–the bear–whenever he traipses through the garden or wanders too close to the fence, and–worst of all–wait for orders from Ransom’s masters (i.e., the eldil) in whom some of the members have little or no faith.

There is so much waiting at St. Anne’s and so little doing. There is no “warrior class” or “special operations unit” making attacks on the NICE. There is no “war room,” per se, where the members of St. Anne’s talk at length about their plans. There is only waiting.

In an article from 2015, Jake Meador describes the St. Anne’s strategy well, comparing it to the current state of evangelical Christians in 21st century America:

In one of the essential texts for today’s church, C.S. Lewis’s That Hideous Strength, the insurgents rebelling against the sexual industrial complex of the modern west are not culture warriors assailing the institutions slowly consuming our earth and its creatures. Rather, their insurgency takes the form of faithful living in an out-of-the-way manor house out in the English countryside called St. Anne’s. It was at St. Anne’s that these people could live in fellowship with one another and with God’s creation while they waited for the undoing of the NICE in a Tower-of-Babel-style collapse. The future of Evangelicalism will either look less like Willow Creek or Mars Hill and more like St. Anne’s or it will not exist.

I like Meador’s emphasis on the lack of “culture warriors” in his description of St. Anne’s: the urge to “DO SOMETHING” productive–i.e., something quantifiable and empirically useful–would be the undoing of St. Anne’s because it would result in its dissolution. NICE is too big to be threatened by an external attack from the small group of people at St. Anne’s. And NICE’s cultural influence and political power is too ubiquitous to be hampered by a political campaign based on the St. Anne’s way of life. Anything other than small, faithful living would be doomed to fail.

It’s worth noting, however, that St. Anne’s, despite being an out-of-the-way manor house, remains the sole form of rebellion against NICE. Lewis intentionally wants to draw our attention to St. Anne’s as the only productive form of resistance. It may feel like useless inaction, or passive aggressive behavior, or even like a retreat to the bunkers. But we would be mistaken. To live faithfully in small ways requires a herculean effort of courage, determination, and hope no military charge would require of its members. It’s easier to act rashly than it is to wait patiently.

If you’re concerned about cultural trends in 21st century America, think small. Forego flashy exploits or rhetorical dunking on your opponents. How does your way of life reflect your beliefs? Are you willing to sacrifice the conveniences  and cachet of cultural relevance–and I mean everything from staying up-to-date on the latest Netflix shows to life-style trends like minimalism and F.I.R.E.?

The cultural battles ahead (…if you can call them battles…) won’t be won on a grand stage; it won’t be decided by a single showdown where the champion will win glory for himself/herself. It will probably be won in a garden–somewhere on an obscure patch of land in an obscure region of the world. After all, as Meador points out, the battle is not ours to win.

Mammoth Bone Huts

And now for something completely different…

Here is your fun archaeology fact of the day.

And for a little more explanation…

The Odyssey and Not Knowing

I’m rereading the Odyssey right now and it has occurred to me that one of the fundamental themes throughout the entire story revolves around the problem of uncertainty.

Because Telemachus and Penelope do not know the fate of Odysseus, they cannot maintain order in his house. If he were dead, then there would be social customs Telemachus could set in motion that would keep the evil (i.e., inhospitable!) suitors at bay. But because Odysseus’ whereabouts are unknown, neither Telemachus or Penelope have sufficient grounds for taking action and restoring order to the home.

And for some reason, the gods seem to be in on the whole thing.

Athena sends Telemachus on a journey to Pylos, where he’ll meet with Nestor and eventually Menelaus to ask about his father’s condition. She goes to great lengths to set this errand in motion:

  • She pleads (twice!) with the council of the gods (…mostly with Zeus) to save Odysseus and they agree to do so;
  • She disguises herself as a friend of Telemachus (Mentor) and urges him to provoke the suitors and then to take a ship to Pylos;
  • She goes with Telemachus to visit Nestor, and then heads back to the ship.

Then there’s the strange moment where she sends Penelope a dream at the end of book IV, assuaging her sorrow about Telemachus’ journey and to encourage her to stay strong in Odysseus’ absence. Penelope, recognizing the dream as sent from Athena, does a reasonable thing: SHE ASKS ATHENA ABOUT ODYSSEUS’ WHEREABOUTS (…something Telemachus has neglected to do up to this point).

But does Athena give Penelope an answer? No.

“As for that other one (Odysseus), I will not tell you the whole story

whether he lives or has died. It is bad to babble emptily.” (IV.836-37)

Leaving aside the fact that it wouldn’t be empty babble since Athena in fact knows where Odysseus is and whether he’ll return to Ithaca, I wonder what the purpose of holding Penelope and Telemachus in suspense serves.

Is it purely for dramatic effect? Maybe. But that seems cheap and uncharacteristic of Homer if it’s the only reason.

My current thought hovers around the idea about the purpose and effect of knowledge itself. One of the conditions of the human experience is its uncertainty about it’s past, present, and future circumstances. Nevertheless, despite a felt lack of certain knowledge, humans attempt to bring order out of chaos, justice out of injustice. In order to do so, there needs to be some shared sense/acknowledgment of a fundamental ordering principle–e.g., what is justice?

In the case of the Odyssey, that principle is Odysseus. His name, his accomplishments, and his reputation have brought his house into existence by giving it definition and a source from which it’s renown and order stems. Presumably, Odysseus could die, and his house would remain given the social customs surrounding death.

(E.G., one of the reasons Telemachus wants to find out what has happened to Odysseus is so that he can erect a funeral pyre and tomb to bring everlasting honor and fame to his father).

But what do you do if the fundamental ordering principle of your house is missing? Not just dead, but absent without trace or explanation? What if he’s still alive, but you can’t find him? Do you continue to behave as if he is still alive? Or do you behave as if he’s dead?*

In other words, how should you live?

Odysseus’ house is in disarray at the beginning of the Odyssey. Not because it has been openly attacked, but because it has been in a state of arrested development for nearly twenty years, and now the effects of its slow deterioration have surfaced.

And isn’t this state of affairs characteristic of the human condition: more often than we care to admit, we suffer more from our sins of omission than sins of commission. Unlike Telemachus and Penelope, we lose hope that Odysseus will return, or fail to search for him as ardently as Telemachus. If we’re lucky, we’ll wake up to our inattention, like Dante waking up to find himself lost in a dark wood.

———-

*Questions along these lines have me thinking a lot about the opening of Plato’s dialogue Timaeus: “One, two, three; but where, my dear Timaeus, is the fourth…?”